


In Poison And Honey

by MrEvilside



Series: Statecraft [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: BAMF Loki, Companionable Snark, Diplomacy, Interspecies Romance, Jötunn Loki, Loki Does What He Wants, M/M, Magic and Science, Plot Twists, Post-Thor (2011), Pre-Avengers (2012), Sexual Tension, Thor Is a Good Bro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-07
Updated: 2013-12-07
Packaged: 2018-01-03 22:05:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1073598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrEvilside/pseuds/MrEvilside
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thor comes to Earth looking for his lost brother, Loki comes to Earth, though reluctantly, for diplomacy's sake, and Tony wasn't aware he would have Fury and Thor over for breakfast so early in the morning. </p><p>
  <i>“You know what?” Tony comments, shattering the astounded silence, and casts a suggestive glance at Thor, who’s gaping at the screen as though he doesn’t know what to do with his life anymore, “I think we’ve just found your brother. No need to thank us, attracting weirdos is something that Earth is a pro at, apparently.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Poison And Honey

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wrecked_anon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrecked_anon/gifts).



> Prompt: AU in which Jotunheim was not wrecked by Asgard and still has the Casket. Laufey’s son and arrogant prince of Jotunheim visits earth as an ambassador. Tony (along with a number of other dignitaries) is pulled in by the president to serve as host and represent earth’s interests in a potential new alliance. Loki and his retainers are being hosted at Stark Tower. Hilarity and/or inter-species romance ensues.
> 
> For wrecked_anon. I know this probably isn't what you expected, but I tried my best. Hope you like it?

Loki scrunches up his nose, regal dignity etched into his features, arms crossed over his chest and head slightly cocked to the side. “This had better be a jest, mother,” he says, sounding biting, threatening.

The woman in front of him doesn’t so much as blink. She sees no more than the toddler he once was throwing a tantrum. “I am afraid I am very serious, my son.”

“Is it my punishment?”

“Not a punishment,” Farbauti corrects him, “but rather a lesson you have yet to learn. I believe this task will be quite helpful.” Seeing as the god is about to reply, she silences him with an authoritative look and adds in an eloquent tone: “Furthermore, Jötunheimr deserves no less than a prince our people can trust. By serving as an ambassador on Midgard, you will prove to be such.”

“Midgard.” Loki turns his back on her, the plates on his shoulders, the bracelets around his wrists and the gilded breeches shining golden and crimson under the kiss of the dying sun. “You must know what significance that realm holds for me.” He stares into the distance, sees the splendor of Asgard instead of the starkness of Jötunheimr, sees everything that he has lost and clenches his fists, jaw squared and gaze hardened. “ _Thor_ claimed responsibility over it.”

The woman does not yield, yet her voice and expression soften into understanding. “I am aware.” She reaches out, as though to touch him, but stops mid-air and withdraws her hand. Whether her son notices or not, he does not show, instead keeping his silence as he contemplates his realm in ruins.

“However, this is not only about you. It is about all of us. Do you still wish to rule this world, Loki?”

_Do I?_

Only a few days before—not even the blink of an eye for an Ӕsir—he would have laughed at such a question. Now, that heap of ice and stone is the best he can hope for while dreaming of marble and magnificence. He heaves a soft sigh. “Yes, I do. It is the reason why I stayed, after all. It is my birthright.”

He is collecting so many lies he has long since stopped keeping count—caring. _My birthright is the throne of the Realm Eternal._ Was. Never will be.

“Then be wise,” Farbauti suggests, “and earn that right.”

There is not much Loki can do but nod in acceptance, although inside he burns with resentment and humiliation and _no, Loki_. He is supposed to be royalty and yet he has to take upon himself trivial duties such as establishing diplomatic relationships with lesser worlds. Humans, insignificant earthlings who have barely just risen from their nest—even the oldest and most experienced among them is but a baby in his eyes. Even the Dwarves, for all their savageness, would be worthier of his presence, he muses scornfully, but Farbauti wants him to go to _Midgard_ of all places.

He pinches the bridge of his nose with two fingers, closes his eyes. It will be a long journey.

 

*

 

After Afghanistan, Iron Monger, Vanko and Hammer, Tony isn’t really that surprised when a real god shows up in Stark Tower at eleven thirty in the morning. Actually, he’s more annoyed than anything, since the guy’s rather thunderous appearance in his living room wakes him up way earlier than he intended and prompts the dutiful arrival of several dozens of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, with Fury at their head and Hill in tow, all death glares and weapons aimed at the god’s broad chest.

Predictably, he doesn’t take such welcome too well—not that Tony can blame him.

“How dare you threaten me?” he murmurs—which Tony feels the slightest bit ashamed for being so surprised at; he may or may not have seen one too many movies about Vikings bellowing at the top of their lungs—a hand hovering dangerously over the hammer dangling from his belt.

“Thor?” Coulson turns up at the director’s side, so quiet and subtle that has Tony wondering whether he popped out of thin air or something. The agent lowers his gun, steps forward, Fury’s sole eye practically boring a hole into his back, and offers Big, Blonde and Angry a hand. “Do you remember me? Agent Phil Coulson of S.H.I.E.L.D. We met some time ago…”

“In New Mexico,” the guy—Thor—finishes for him. His expression softens as he takes hold of the man’s hand for a firm handshake instead of his hammer to shake _them_. “Yes, I remember. How could I not? I wish I could say it is a pleasure to see you again, Son of Coul, although unfortunately I have come to Midgard again under dire circumstances.”

This is when Tony deems it harmless to remind them of his presence—honestly, he has never felt as neglected before, and he’s Tony fucking Stark. “Hey, this is the most touching reunion in the history of reunions, but would you mind if it happened elsewhere instead of _my_ tower? Just so you know, some people like sleeping in the morning.” He wriggles his eyebrows and suggestively points at his underwear, his only piece of clothing—and _thank God_ he didn’t sleep with anyone last night, or this could have been way more embarrassing.

The god turns towards him, takes in his disheveled—and quite naked—conditions and has the good grace of looking sheepish. He clears his throat timidly. “My apologies. I, uh… I did not expect I would end up in your abode.”

“Apology accepted,” Tony waves him off with a shrug and offers him a friendly grin. After all, the guy is kind of cute. Cute, huge and potentially bone-crushing. “So long as you send me a message in advance the next time. Now, would you mind…?”

“ _Yes_ , I would,” Fury chimes in, voice dripping authority and intimidation. Too bad neither of them ever worked on Tony. “It isn’t wise to leave now, Stark. We can’t just have an alien take a stroll around in Manhattan. We need to know why he’s here first.” He shoots Thor an inquisitive glance. “Will you cooperate?”

The big guy raises an eyebrow, casts Coulson a brief glance, as if silently questioning the director’s reliability, then he hunches his shoulders and nods. “I will provide you with the answers you seek,” he says, “if you are willing to do the same.”

Fury ponders him for a moment, ducks his head to the side in what might pass for an agreement in Furyan—being who he is, it’s just obvious to Tony that he has his own personal language; how would he keep all those secrets otherwise? “We’re willing,” he accepts at last, sliding his gun back into the case with a smooth gesture, perfected by the habit. He furrows his eyebrows at Tony, eloquently staring at his shirtless chest, as if the director was the house owner and Tony a very impolite guest. _What the fuck._ “We can begin our conversation as soon as Mr. Stark is presentable enough to join us.”

Once again, Thor is kind enough to appear shameful and feigns a small cough. “Yes, uhm, sure.”

Tony likes the guy a little more. Way more than he does Fury, anyway.

Some time, a pair of jeans and a Metallica t-shirt later, they’re all sitting on the couch—Tony, the god, the director, Hill and Coulson, that is: the other agents have been dismissed while Tony was busy getting dressed—and Fury takes the lead. It’s so predictable it’s not even funny, Tony snorts and the director gifts him with one of his most affectionate scowls. “So, you said you’re looking for your brother, right?”

Blondie does his best to seem serious, but it’s evident that he has more than a few issues getting comfortable on the sofa, what with him being bigger than Fury and Tony put together: he’s perched on one of the corners, legs squeezed against one another and hands folded in his lap, struggling to leave enough room for the others. Then again, Tony finds it cute, although the gloomy look on the guy’s face suggests that he’d better not point it out right now.

“Yes,” Thor mutters, staring down at his opened palms with the horror and despair of a repentant murderer. “I fear that he might be… lost,” and Tony doesn’t need to inquire to know that it means _dead_ —Yinsen smiles up at him, gurgles _this was always the plan, Stark_ , and then he’s _lost_ , “but we have never found his corpse. I still have hope that he might have found shelter on one of the Nine Realms.”

“Can you elaborate on that? What exactly happened to your brother?” Tony breaks in, not very sensitively, but, hey, that he understands what the guy has been through doesn’t mean he’s good at sympathy. He can’t be blamed if God—or whoever on His behalf—gave him so much brain stuff and skimped some humanity instead.

The god—the very real, very gigantic one—looks at him, bemused at his straightforward attitude as though he isn’t used to people being that direct with him, and lowers his gaze as he answers.

It’s a long, complicated, painful story, a story of brotherly love, of betrayal, of vengeance, of _never enough_ and _always too much_ ; a story Tony is a little more familiar than he’s comfortable with—and, as much as he might like Thor, he finds himself surprisingly more understanding towards his brother instead. He isn’t particularly fond of the sound of it, because this Loki seems like a very psychotic dude, but he’s much more similar to Tony than the man would ever expect an alien god to be.

Right before silence has time to settle, embarrassed on the humans’ part, sorrowful on the Asgardian’s, Fury’s pager starts beeping insistently, throwing everyone off. The director inspects the display for a long moment with the same expression he would wear if there were a giant bug squashed against the display. Tony harbors the suspicion that it may be his default expression, anyway.

“Stark, the TV,” Fury snaps, none-too-gently shoving him under his own train of thoughts, because he can. “Turn it on. _Now._ ”

Tony doesn’t really like being ordered around, but obeys nonetheless, just this once, because the Earth might be in danger and Pepper would kill him if he didn’t save it because Fury upset him. He would come up with a better excuse, in any case, but still.

The first channel to pop up on the screen is the news, even though at first Tony mistakes it for a sci-fi movie.

 _BREAKING NEWS – Cosplayer or true alien?_ flashes at the bottom of the screen and the footage shows a man standing on the torch of the Statue of Liberty and glaring up at the camera disdainfully. Despite the fact that they’re already half-way through November—not to mention that it must be freezing at that height—the guy looks perfectly comfortable wearing only jewelry, a pair of boots and breeches made of gold plates and black leather—the kind of stuff the dudes from _Games of Thrones_ would die for.

What catches Tony’s attention, though, is the rather peculiar fact that the man—at this point, he might as well call him an _alien_ , because there’s no way _that_ is a _man_ —is blue.

Jötunn blue, actually.

“You know what?” Tony comments, shattering the astounded silence, and casts a suggestive glance at Thor, who’s gaping at the screen as though he doesn’t know what to do with his life anymore, “I think we’ve just found your brother. No need to thank us, attracting weirdos is something that Earth is a pro at, apparently.”

Fury is back on his feet, dead serious eye fixed on the TV. “Is he dangerous?”

Thor can’t seem able to look away from his brother’s haughty face; he’s mumbling something to himself—Tony only catches the word _alive_ —and doesn’t come out of his reverie until Fury repeats his question in a snarl. “He…” He opens and closes his palms several times, at a loss for words. “He may be.”

Way before the director prompts him, Tony’s already hurrying towards the closest window. “JARVIS, did you hear them? Sounds like I’ll fly today.”

The floor tiles draw away from each other and give room to a platform. One of the armors is standing on it, completely built. As soon as the man steps onto it as well, a trapdoor opens on the ceiling and two metallic arms descend from the hole to help him put it on.

“Hill,” Fury calls, turning towards his second in command, “I need two teams there and one as back-up. If that—that _god_ tries anything like the Destroyer, fi—”

“No!” The director is brusquely cut off by the sudden roar of the wind, when Thor starts swinging his hammer. It spins faster and faster and the air growls and whirls around it as the god hovers in mid-air. “Stand back, mortals. I understand that your intentions are righteous, but only I will be able to stop Loki’s madness, if it comes down to it.”

He doesn’t exactly give them a chance to answer, since he flies out of the window that JARVIS has just opened for Tony. At least he didn’t hammer his way into the wall.

“Hill, I want those teams up there _now_!” Fury shouts, striding towards the door, Coulson and Hill following after him. “You’d better prove that suit of yours isn’t just for Halloween, Stark! I’ll see you there!”

Tony activates his boots and blasts off, teeth bare in a feral smirk. “Yes, sir.”

 

*

 

When a helicopter trains a machine gun on him, Loki lifts his eyebrows in exasperation and annoyance. He has not even done anything yet and they are already trying to kill him, and then Thor accuses _him_ of madness. Seriously, this is laughable.

He expects one of the Midgardians on the flying contraption to speak to him—or, if they dare, to fire at him—but they only hold him at gunpoint after warning him to stay still. Stalling him, the god realizes. Waiting for somebody else, probably some sort of leader, to deal with him. He takes scaring them into consideration briefly—a little, _almost_ harmless push might persuade them not to waste his time, after all—but there is too much at stake for a childish prank.

However, he does not have to wait long, though he cannot exactly say he is pleased with who appears in charge of giving him a proper welcome. Thor, of all people. Of course.

When the Thunderer lands next to him—with shocking delicacy, all things considered—Loki is purposefully looking down at the city below them, avoiding him both with his eyes and with his whole body. “I will not” he starts, before Thor can even as much as open his mouth, “talk to you.”

The God of Thunder stares at him in awe and disbelief, as though he has seen a ghost—and perhaps he has, the Liesmith argues with himself bitterly. “I…” It doesn’t exactly shock him when Thor seems unable to utter a proper sentence; such a pitiful attempt should discourage the Thunderer from embarrassing himself further, but he has always been so pathetically stubborn. “We… we thought you lost. I have been looking for you ever since… ever since…”

At least he is wise enough not to finish, although _ever since the fall_ echoes darkly in the God of Lies’ ears anyway. It is one of those echoes that will never stop tormenting him in his dreams, no matter what.

“Well, apparently I am still alive,” Loki deadpans with only the least noticeable edge of rage and resentment in his tone, otherwise devoid of all emotions. He will not give away any weakness in front of that god. “I have come to Midgard on behalf of Jötunheimr for a diplomatic meeting and therefore I will only grant audience to the Midgardians.” Since the God of Thunder simply gapes at him— _big oaf_ , laughs a much younger, much happier Loki, the shadow of a memory that the Liesmith brushes off with disdain—the God of Lies suggests sarcastically: “You might as well leave.”

That shakes Thor, who looks both hurt and about to yell at him, but Loki lifts up his palm to silence him and raises his eyebrows when something else catches his attention: a mortal—or so it seems—draped in gold and bright red that glows in the sunlight, _flying_ in his direction as the Liesmith has never seen a human do before.

 _Fascinating_ , he muses to himself while the man approaches them, floating a few feet above their heads, and his odd attire turns out to be some sort of armor, both similar and different from the ones they wear in Asgard. _Genius._

The God of Lies takes in every detail he possibly can, takes things apart in his head, makes calculations, learns, wonders. Wants.

The mask on the Midgardian’s face raises as if of its own volition— _magical_ —and the mortal flashes a lopsided smirk at him—a quarter genius, two quarters mad, a quarter broken, just like Loki. It is like seeing his reflection, and it is both scary and relieving, like facing the abyss again, albeit this time he has a hand to hang on to.

“Hey, Blue Bro,” the mortal addresses him, “how about _granting audience_ —man, this sounds so fancy, I love it—to me?”

Somehow he listened to their conversation, but for once the Liesmith cannot find it in himself to be incensed. _Wonderful._ He just wants more and more.

Stepping on the edge of the colossal torch, he proffers his hand to the human in an elaborate gesture, thick rings studded with colorful gemstones gleaming on his thumb, index finger and pinky. “Gladly,” and he cannot help but mirror the Midgardian’s grin when he sees Thor’s face fall comically out of the corner of his eye.

Tony can recognize a playboy when he meets one, being a shamelessly experienced one himself, and the way Loki smiles at him can’t be described as anything but predatory. There’s also something else to it, though, something that thrills Tony even more, if that’s possible: it’s curiosity, it’s understanding, it’s a question unspoken.

 _Sorry, blondie._ He shoots an apologetic look in Thor’s direction as Loki disregards the big guy completely in favor of him—except Tony isn’t actually that sorry and pulls the god flush against him without even pretending to be subtle, lifting him off the ground with some effort, even though the suit should be able to carry several SUV’s at once without so much as a huff.

Thor scowls at them, looking like a gigantic, abandoned puppy, but doesn’t move to repeat the same neat flying trick with his hammer as before.

“I suppose I will stay and explain the situation to Director Fury,” he mutters—a spoiled child who’s been denied his favorite toy—crosses his arms over his broad chest and gives both of them a warning glance, “if you are sure you can deal with my brother on your own. As for you, brother, I do hope you do not mean harm here or you will have to face my wrath.”

Loki rolls his eyes as the only response, then he taps Tony on the shoulder and quirks upwards the corners of his mouth. “Where will you take me?”

Now, if _that_ doesn’t sound so wrong out of those thin lips. Deliciously wrong.

Tony isn’t used to being on the receiving end of flirting—there’s _no way_ this isn’t downright flirting—but he has no intentions of complaining about it. “Well, would my place work for your diplomatic thing?” His grin disappears behind the faceplate slowly lowering over his face.

Loki’s smile widens, and all of a sudden Tony finds himself fond of diplomacy.

 

*

 

The Midgardian’s abode—Tony Stark, he learns during their brief flight—is truly impressive. Looking out of one of the large windows, Loki feels like he is dominating the whole city. He wonders if Stark has ever had the same impression—a king in his own way—and sips quietly from the glass of whiskey the mortal has provided him with. Its strength is quite poor compared to Asgardian mead, yet the taste is decent enough.

“Hey,” the man calls for him from behind his back, “I thought we were going to talk. Isn’t that what people usually do during diplomatic meetings?”

The Liesmith keeps his silence for a while longer, lets him starve for attention for a while longer, then he slowly turns towards Stark and ducks his head to the side, black locks falling messily over his shoulder and bare chest.

The Midgardian’s eyes are fixed on him, but they are not holding his gaze. The God of Lies pretends not to notice his brazen stare, pretends he is not enjoying it.

“You are very right, Mr. Stark. Although I am sure Thor has already talked to you about me—quite profusely, if I know him well enough—” _and unfortunately, I do_ , his tightening jaw clarifies for the briefest of moments, before the god relaxes once again, “allow me to introduce myself. I am Loki of Jötunheimr, and I have been sent to Midgard by the queen of that land—Lady Farbauti, my mother—with the proposal of an alliance between our realms.”

Now it is the mortal who does not answer; he considers Loki carefully, his cocky, playful smirk still in place, though the Liesmith does not dare to underestimate him for a second. He knows it may very well prove fatal for him, even though they are not enemies.

“Excuse me if I’m too straightforward,” the man is choosing his words, weighing every single one of them, smile suddenly gone, “but isn’t Jötunheimr the same place you’ve tried to, err, destroy? Thor told me about the whole thing. A bit extreme, in my opinion. Anyway, my point is, well, isn’t it kind of weird that you’re their envoy now? One might think they’d rather have you as far from their planet as possible.”

The God of Lies cannot help it: his fingers flex and curl into fists, and the glass he is still holding cracks audibly. Stark’s eyes snap towards it for an instant, filled with worry and uncertainty, but when he meets Loki’s gaze again he has already regained his composure.

This Midgardian, the Liesmith realizes, is too smart for his own good. Some day, he will discover too much and saying it out loud as he has just done will get him killed.

It is no speculation, only truth.

On the other hand, that same cleverness is what draws the God of Lies to him like a thirsty man to a fount, what persuades him not to punish such boldness, despite the rage uncoiling in the pit of his stomach.

“It is a very long story, Mr. Stark,” he murmurs after some of his ire has quelled. “Fortunately,” half a smile stretching his lips, bitter and mocking and not quite reaching his eyes, “Thor has already related most of it. Very well, I will tell you the end that the Thunderer is unaware of: when I fell from the Bifrost, I landed in Jötunheimr. I was scared, wounded and furious, and I found myself alone in the very realm I had just attempted to wipe out of existence. The Jötnar would have killed me—I cannot blame them, I would have done the same in their place—if it had not been for Lady Farbauti; she spared my life and in return asked that I accept my heritage as a prince of the Frost Giants…” He hesitates, debating whether to let another fragment of himself slip through his reply, then he shrugs. “… and her son.”

Arms crossed over his chest and lips pursed in concentration, Tony watches him intensely, trying to see through him, to figure out if he is pretending. Loki doesn’t give away anything but regal composure, though, and therefore Tony decides to push him a little bit. “And what about your blue… thing? As far as I know, you aren’t too fond of it.”

The god’s eyes turn to frozen blood, his lips tighten into a thin line and his entire figure goes rigid, like marble and icicles. He breathes, in, out, several times, barely holding back a slew of so many different emotions that Tony can’t quite tell one from the other—and maybe he’s pushed too far and Loki is breaking into a million shards of glass right in front of him, but he won’t back down, won’t retract the hand reaching towards the glass, though fully aware that he will end up hurting himself.

When Loki speaks again, his voice is surprisingly even. Soft, almost. “Once again, you are right, but what manner of prince would I be, if I refused to exhibit my true form?”

It’s solemn and grave and broken— _monster, monster, monster_ —and the god appears so sincere and raw and vulnerable for a split-second that Tony feels compelled to look away until the many layers of lies slide back into place, concealing weakness, intertwining with the truth until they are indistinguishable.

“Convincing enough,” Tony mutters, if anything because he wants to forget what he has just seen—what he has just remembered. Fire, blood, sand, so much sand, and he falls, falls, _falls_. Loki must have fallen as hard as he did, except Tony had Rhodey turning the desert inside out to find him and Pepper waiting for him at the airport, whereas the god had sheer nothingness opening up to swallow him.

 _Convincing, but not necessarily truthful._ Loki’s smile loses some sharp edges, displays some more teeth. _Brilliant._

“So, what do you want?”

Taken aback by that unexpected inquiry, the Liesmith only blinks, but the mortal seems to catch that unnoticeable reaction anyway. “C’mon, do you think I’m that dumb?” He spreads his arms, palms open and eyebrows wiggling theatrically. “From what Blondie told me, you don’t exactly strike me as the kind of guy that likes to share. You didn’t reveal your past out of the goodness of your heart: you were trading information.”

Being read that easily should unnerve him, yet he feels more fascinated than upset. He walks up to the counter between them and sets down his empty glass. “I must say I am impressed, Mr. Stark,” he confesses, absent-mindedly following the tips of his own fingers as they trail along the smooth wooden surface, as though they are more interesting than his interlocutor.

“Yeah, it happens quite a lot where I’m concerned,” the Midgardian shrugs, cocky and smug and delicious. “So, again, what do you want?”

Looking back up into his dark blue eyes, Loki knows that the human will not let him elude the question any longer. _So be it, my dear._ “Very well. Rest assured, I do not require anything of importance. In fact, it is rather simple: I have answered your questions, you will now answer mine. Is it not fair enough?”

“It depends on what kind of questions you have,” Tony says sharply, which is Starkian for _not really, you asshole_.

“Oh, it is just a little bit of curiosity really.” Regardless of the god’s seemingly harmless attitude, Tony can’t help but highly doubt his words. “I would love to know how your technology works—it looks far more complicated than standard Midgardian science, am I right? Unless you have all become far more clever than I recall you being only a few decades ago, which I deem highly unlikely—and how you developed it.”

Tony isn’t sure how to react to a compliment that indirectly insults the rest of mankind, but he blames it on the way the light plays over the rings on Loki’s long, _long_ fingers as they idly tap on the counter.

He leans towards the god, elbows resting beside their empty glasses as he shoots him a glance that can only be described as conspiratorial. “You want to do science.”

The sparkle glinting in his eyes—on the very brink of sanity, about to fall down—calls to Loki’s nature as God of Mischief like the song of a mermaid claims the soul of a sailor. _Oh, I want you._ “Yes.” He mirrors the man’s movements until their faces are almost touching, twin smirks slightly brushing, eyes ablaze with the same crazed passion. “I suppose you could phrase it that way.”

And then Tony’s StarkPhone goes off, and the man silently curses in all the languages he doesn’t know. It turns out it’s Fury, which somehow annoys him even further, as if the director’s doing it on purpose. The disappointment must be blatant on his face, because the god chuckles as Tony withdraws from him and picks up the call.

“You’d better have a very persuasive explanation, Stark,” Fury all but growls as soon as he hits the green button—figuratively speaking, of course: he stopped designing keyboards for his StarkPhones some six years ago, when he started implementing holoscreens instead.

The director sounds particularly pissed—he only calls him “Stark” when he’s pissed—but, hey, Tony has every right to be even _more_ pissed.

“Yeah, well, Loki doesn’t exactly get on with his big bro,” he glances sideways at the god, who simply cocks his head to the side in a silent inquiry, “so he asked to speak to me in private. We’re discussing a kind of alliance between his world and ours. Apparently, he doesn’t want to blow up the Earth like he did…” He catches himself before he royally screws up his chances with Loki—chances of what, he’s still wondering himself. “You know what I’m talking about. Anyway, how cool is that?”

There’s silence on the other end of the line for a very long time and Tony is almost certain he can see the director’s brain storing every piece of information in the complementary folder—he has always pictured the inside of Fury’s head as a huge FBI office swarming with miniatures of the man carrying files around, flipping through records and occasionally turning to look at some random screens on the left.

At last, the director makes a weird noise, something between chocking and scoffing. “Are you sure you got it covered?” he asks, although begrudgingly.

Tony can still feel Loki’s cold breath right on his lips. “Yeah, pretty much. Don’t worry, I’m working for you. For all mankind, actually. Seems like he likes me, so don’t send any agents yet, okay? They tend to fire first and never ask questions later, and I don’t think I’d like to see him angry.”

Unexpectedly, Fury hangs up.

Tony lowers the hand holding the phone and stares at it in mild surprise, because as much as the director doesn’t enjoy casual talking, that conversation was kind of essential to the whole Earth—then he lifts up his head and the god is gone.

“I must admit, patience has never been one of my virtues.” Soft lips brush against his ear as a pair of strong hands settle on his shoulders. “Are you willing to show me some of your science or not, Mr. Stark?”

“Do I have any other choice?” As if he _wants_ to say no.

“I may or may not take “blowing up the Earth” into consideration, in case of a negative response,” Loki tosses in casually—half a joke, half a somewhat serious threat that makes Tony shiver, albeit not entirely out of uneasiness. The god is poison sweetened with honey and Tony finds himself more and more fascinated with that flavor.

“Well, thank God that I don’t intend to give a negative response then,” he deadpans. Much to his chagrin, he sounds less snarky and more breathless than intended. “How about a tour in my lab then?”

“God?” Loki’s laugh resonating against his neck threatens to drive him mad. _Fucking tease._

“Oh, you know what I’m talking about,” Tony snorts petulantly, “you’re older than Christianity, for fuck’s sake.”

He wants to turn around, to reach out and touch, actually touch, but all of a sudden the god’s coldness draws back as Loki takes some steps away from him. Tony furrows his brows, wondering if he said something wrong—come on, how is he supposed to know if Asgardians take offense at age-based jokes?—but when he meets his gaze the god is smirking, devious and wide and _it isn’t as easy as you think_.

Loki makes a show of observing his surroundings and gesticulating towards the room, not even _trying_ to sound guilty for messing with him so blatantly. “Where is this laboratory you have just mentioned, then?”

Poison and honey.

It’s a challenge Tony is definitely up for.

He walks up to the god’s side and defies him with a scathing grin. “If you will follow me,” he offers, gesturing towards the lift.

He’s bold enough to set a hand on Loki’s lower back, but the god doesn’t protest and returns his smile instead. Two wolves baring their fangs, walking in circle, waiting for their opponent’s first move, first mistake, first fissure in their defense.

“It will be my pleasure, Mr. Stark.”


End file.
